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Two page story taken from the novel 'Counting on Grace' |
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The Wound I knew I had to get out of that mill. One way or the other I had to get out. I walked in the mill and ignored Grace. She shot me a look that said she was worried, but what did she care she was ready to crawl up and die for the mill owners. Maybe I should knock some sense into her but I won’t be able to do that no more with only one hand. No one asks me many questions anyway and they tend to mind their own business. The air is always full of lint and flying cotton. I once told Mom that it look like a bird coop, she just laughed and told me to keep it to myself same way Grace does when I tell her a joke. I fell sick, as a wave of heat and lint seem to brush my face and grab me through my clothes. I begin to sweat immediately and my clothes stick to my back and my shoulders. Refusing myself to gag and let the lint fill my throat I barge forward. Minutes after I walk in some of the mothers are already starting up their frames and the din begins. I ain’t ever heard such a loud sound as the one in the mill. I agree with what Grace said once that it would probably make us deaf. I walk up to our own frames and Mom is starting them up and strings are flying. I watch as the first strings fly and start rolling themselves onto the thin bobbins. I don’t watch long because they start to fill up and I have to replace the bobbins. One, two, three, four, I count to myself. My hair is already matted down on my forehead and lint is falling out of my pockets. “Arthur!” My mother shouts and I fly to the next frame and doff all the fat, white bobbins there. My feet feel funny flying through the grease on the floor. Below I can hear the clacking of the looms as they fix the clothes. Miss Lesly told me that they make large sheets that will later be cut and fitted onto other kids. She didn’t say the part about other kids because she knows that I don’t take to that kind of talk. I just hope that my clothes weren’t spun in this stupid mill. I don’t think anybody would want the clothes from this mill. I can feel Grace glancing at me. Am I that suspicious? I had better get it over with soon before she shoots her mouth off and tattle on me again to French Johnny. She’s just the type sweet and innocent and then she stabs you with a rusted knife. The only thing I can trust on in this world are books, people are just trying to make their own way. I call over to Mom and she nods at me. I jump over to the gearbox and flip the top off. Menacing teeth look at me grinding away at their oil beverage. I can feel a cold knife sit at the base of my back and then work its way up into my shoulder then down to my hand at my side. I look over and see Grace looking at me with a confused expression. I suck in air trough gritted teeth and I shake. Tearing myself away, and I thrust my hand into the gearbox. The teeth start to gobble up my hand, shearing piece after piece as I feed my hand into the gears. Blood and grease fly off the gears and I can see the edges off my vision start going black. I open my eyes wide to keep myself conscious as I watch my hand disappear. Somewhere in the distance I can hear Grace scream as more of my vision fades. The machine shut off and I drop to the floor. Last few things I can see are Grace’s feet and a few others charge towards me. I can hear my name being called and their so far away. Distant voices beckoning me to stay, like sirens in one of the books I read. I give up and slip into it, nothing hurts now. |
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